


swim for your life

by transgenicveins



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Olympics, Olympics!AU, shameless excuse for smut and pool imagery okay, swimmer!liam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-22
Updated: 2013-03-22
Packaged: 2017-12-06 04:15:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/731345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transgenicveins/pseuds/transgenicveins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'and during the London Olympics, Zayn performs in front of the whole world, becomes infatuated with an athlete, breaks Twitter, makes softcore porn, and learns how to swim.'</p>
<p>(not necessarily in that order)</p>
            </blockquote>





	swim for your life

**Author's Note:**

> OLYMPICS!AU, with big love to Jay for putting up with me while I wrote it.
> 
> cross-posting from lj, written in August 2012.

During the Beijing Olympics four years ago, Zayn snuck out, smoked a joint and kissed a boy for a very first time with track events in the background, in that order.

And during the London Olympics, he performs in front of the whole world, becomes infatuated with an athlete, breaks Twitter, makes softcore porn, and learns how to swim.

(not necessarily in that order)

  


/ / /

  


It’s just after the opening ceremony and the four of them are in the penthouse of the Village. Harry’s losing sleep over his solo and Louis is bored out of his mind and Niall is learning some solo on his old acoustic and Zayn just needs _out_.

He grabs his Ray Bans and Louis’ wrist and slips through the hectic streets. He takes a left instead of a right and tugs him into the London Aquatic Centre without a second thought.

  


/ / /

  


His first memory of Liam Payne goes a little like this:

  


/ / /

  


They’re watching the qualifiers from behind about twenty different camera sets. It’s _easier_ , there, with the chlorine haze and the echoes of the announcers and fifteen thousand people who couldn’t give less of a fuck about What Makes You Beautiful.

“Hey,” Louis says, under his breath, nudging Zayn with his hip. Louis isn’t _quite_ the leader and he’s not _quite_ responsible but he’s the eldest and somewhere between the competition and the tour and the studio, he attuned to the other three without any warning. “We’re playing at the Olympics.”

Zayn grins, ducking his head to cover his wonder. “Paul _fucking_ McCartney played at the Olympics.”

“Paul _fucking_ McCartney,” he echoes, drawing little circles with his fingers on Zayn’s wrist, and he can’t imagine dealing with the homesickness or the nerves without those soft fingers.

They settle against the damp walls and watch the next set walk to the edge. One of the boys representing Great Britain can’t be older than them. He’s wrapped up in a fuzzy grey hoodie and loose sweatpants with headphones disappearing beneath the material. Another competitor- France, probably, from the fair skin and loose tongue- has a hand on the small of his back and lips muffled against one of the headphones. The Brit absorbs the crowd with a certain awe and Zayn’s not _staring_ , exactly, but he can’t help grinning at the boy’s nervous smile.

He diverts his eyes while they undress because he has _manners_ but when he looks back-

_Oh_.

The boy’s curled over, splashing his biceps with stolen water from the pool and Zayn can only see his back, but that means he can also see the droplets slipping down his spine, the wiry muscles stretching as he twists his arms, the - _fuck_ – the shoulder to waist ratio and the line of his hips and the shallow dimples carved into the small of his back.

Zayn’s heart almost thumps out of his chest at the sound of the siren, and it refuses to stop pumping adrenalin to his cells for a whole minute and fifty-five seconds.

“Malik,” Louis says, clutching his forearm at the peace sign, “that one’s our age. He just qualified for the _fucking Olympics_ and I spent all morning beating my own Scoops score.”

He watches the boy laugh and lurch over the lane divider to cuddle close to the first place from France. His eyes crinkle with happiness when he’s announced as second qualifier and Zayn has to look away, then, before he drowns in the bliss or in the pool or both.

(he can feel it lapping around his ankles, though, when the announcer offers a _Liam Payne_ that makes his head spin)

  


/ / /

  


Zayn tells the boys everything but that _sensation_ , the rush of blood and the buoyancy in his lungs and the burn in his stomach, that’s just for Zayn. It’s like the taste of smoke between his lips or the thousand pinpricks of ink scarring his body and it’s an anchor, it’s a comfort, it’s something the rest of the world can’t pull him apart with the appropriate enzymes and steal from his cells.

The boys understand. They’re nervous and disappearing into their anchors (Niall in his childhood, Louis in his words, Harry in his music) on the two beds in the master bedroom pushed together. Harry’s along the bottom, Louis is on the left, Niall’s in the middle, and Zayn’s propped against the headboard. They’re touching - feet tangled together, fingers rubbing at the nape of the neck - and they’re so close but floating so far apart.

Zayn watches them, for a moment, watches Niall giggle at Scooby Doo with a hand tucked under Zayn’s leg, watches Harry twitch his toes against Louis’ in time with his iPod, watches Louis curl fingers through Niall’s hair with his spare hand while he writes. He thinks about tugging them back to shore and instead buries himself in his laptop without a second thought.

He feels suspiciously like a voyeur. Most of the videos of _Liam Payne_ are of his meets and training and he watches the boy grow up, grow into his curls and cut them off; hug his mum then coach then girlfriend and later his coach then boyfriend then mum; shed his headphones then his clothes and eventually his clothes then headphones; beat his own record and then his age’s and then his state’s.

Three hours and half their broadband later, he knows his routine and his technique and his smile and now – now he wants to know the way he tastes and the way he feels and more than that, more than anything, he wants to peel back the goggles and the swim cap and dive right in and know him from the inside out.

He can’t swim though and he’s a little afraid of the water, so instead, he settles with curling up against Niall and groaning shamelessly into the pillow.

  


/ / /

  


That’s how the three of them find him, an hour later when they’re ready to fight the tide.

“You look like our fangirls,” Louis teases, stealing his laptop and checking his search history. He cocks an eyebrow and maybe drowning would be the safer option.

He muffles a noise in the sleeve of Niall’s shirt. “I feel nauseous and voyeuristic and infatuated.”

“Correction,” Harry laughs, “you _are_ our fangirls.”

Niall runs a soothing hand through his loose hair. “Welcome to a life of continuous pain, disappointment, and heart palpations.”

Zayn bites his bicep in response and mumbles an ‘ _I hate you and you and you you sadistic twats I will feed you to the judo champions without a second thought’_ that forces a euphony of giggles from the three of them.

“You love us,” Louis coos, crawling a little closer. “Besides, you _need_ us. Your possible future with Liam Payne-”

(Zayn whines into Niall and refuses to ever ever admit it)

“- needs us.”

“You’ve probably met him before,” Niall offers, texting with his spare hand. “He was at bootcamp. He got an offer from Bill Furniss, though, and disappeared. He was supposed to win.”

Louis frowns. “Why did he leave, then?”

Niall shrugs. “Furniss is the Simon of swim coaches. No one says no to him.”

“And you saw him today?” Harry asks slowly, that cheeky grin twisting his features. “Zayn, this is basically _destiny_. You’re Anastasia and he’s-”

Zayn throws a pillow at him before he can finish and Harry throws back and the conversation escapes through the cracks in the walls, but the sensation is still heavy in his heart.

  


/ / /

  


They’re sneaking out the next day, around the pool, away from the crowds, and Zayn doesn’t _deliberately_ search for Liam, but-

_Oh._

He’s stretched out on the pavement in a pair of Topman’s boxer briefs and glassy Aviators. There’s rough stubble across his cheeks and behind his jaw and the tendons in his throat work as he laughs and it would be so easy, _so easy_ , to sit beside him and maybe splash his ankles or ask about his semi-final and just _forget_ the world –

Instead, he stumbles on one of the deck chairs and Niall – the _arsehole –_ laughs loud enough to draw the attention of two dozen athletes and Zayn wants to disappear in the gaps in the pavement.

Then, though – then a hand wraps around his knocked ankle and _caresses_ the sore skin. “Okay?” Liam asks, with a soft frown and gentle fingers.

He nods, his veins _thrumming_ around his body, and Liam removes his hand and shoots him a lazy smile and that’s the extent of their conversation, but it still tugs him to the clouds.

  


/ / /

  


That night, he waits until everyone – his bandmates, the athletes, the eight million people populating his city – is asleep before tugging on a woolly jumper and disappearing into the streets. He takes a left instead of a right with a thousand neuron messages sparking up his spine.

  


/ / /

  


The only light in the centre comes from the bottom of the pool and the ripples of the water are dancing eerily across the walls. Kings of Leon echo through the acoustics and it’s a cacophony, it should be terrifying, his heart rate should increase, but instead Zayn props himself against the wall and watches the boy swim.

( _watches_ is too modest, too polite, too conservative- he’s learning, learning the ripple of his shoulders, the wave of his legs, the crash of his arms)

Liam surfaces, tugs off his cap and goggles, shoots him a smile that warms the humid atmosphere. He shakes out his hair and pushes it off his forehead. It sticks up at the back. “You look lost,” he laughs, eyes dragging over his body, and Zayn bites his tongue on the ‘ _graceful you look like a dolphin or maybe a swan or maybe a bit of both’_.

“You look fantastic,” he offers, and the droplets of water that sparkle on Liam’s lips slide down to his jaw when he smiles.

He swims a little closer and Zayn wants to offer a hand, but he’s already propping himself out of the pool with a practised arm.

(Zayn watches his forearms work like smooth muscle, so involuntary, so automatic)

They sit by the edge and every few breaths, their knees knock together.

“Liam Payne,” he introduces, eyes crinkling into a smile, holding out a hand. Water drips onto his shorts and he watches it stain the denim before taking his hand. His grip is strong and Zayn might just lose himself in the pressure on his tendon.

“I know who you are,” Zayn admits, and Liam’s eyes brighten, but it might be a trick of the light. And then, because he’s a little embarrassed (for the voyeurism, for the ankle, for being uncomfortable in his own skin with Poseidon beside him), he holds on a little tighter and says “Zayn.”

He grins and releases his hand, but he places it close enough to cause that tight coil around his lungs. “I know who you are too, Zayn Malik.”

His eyes dart to his pink lips because, well, his name never sounds _quite_ that pretty. He hides his smile in his sleeve and notes the Ed Sheeran in the background. “There is no positive correlation in this playlist.”

Liam rolls his eyes. “Is too,” he argues, as though he bickers about this daily. He reaches behind them and switches to that Foster the People song. “Just on a blood level instead of a noise level.”

He frowns at the choice of words and Liam ducks a little closer to say ‘ _you need to feel it, silly, deep in your bones instead of light in your mouth’_.

Automatically he sings softly under his breath, tapping his bare foot against the tile in time, and Liam’s answering smile sets his heart on fire.

“Exactly,” he breathes, clambering to his feet, “ _feel_ that and watch me.”

He steps away from the edge and dives in and swims a lap in perfect, quick, brilliant time, and thankfully Zayn’s breathy ‘ _wow’_ is muffled by the water.

Liam surfaces by his feet and slicks back his hair. He sings along and Zayn’s quite content, really, listening to their voices harmonise, until the words escape from between his lips.

“Why this?” he asks, and they’re both still swaying in time.

He grins and wades a little closer. “Well,” he starts, his chin resting on the cement between Zayn’s knees, hands holding his legs down while thumbs stroke the inside of his thighs. He looks confident, cocky, almost, but there’s an odd vulnerability behind his lazy smile. “On the first day of bootcamp, I got an offer from Furniss.”

“You don’t say no to Furniss,” Zayn echoes, and Liam grins in encouragement.

“And so it goes,” he teases. “But I didn’t – I wasn’t –I didn’t know which to choose. So I picked a boy in the crowd-”

(he props himself up, their eyes level, and his arms are still under the exertion)

“One around my age-”

(he’s close, too, and swaying softly in time with the music)

“And he flipped a coin, hid it, and asked which one I wanted to win-”

(he cuddles closer, lips nearly brushing against his earlobe, and Zayn resists the temptation to lick the droplets sliding down his neck)

“And I made a choice. Sound familiar?”

(it does, it sounds familiar, it’s like something buried under the past two years, but Liam shifts to catch his eye and they don’t want to acknowledge it, quite yet, not for another whole Olympics, so instead he shakes his head)

“Maybe you were afraid of being a shit singer,” he teases, hands curling against the concrete.

Liam raises an eyebrow and fiddles with the iPod dock behind them. “Maybe I was afraid of boys like you,” he teases, and Zayn would reply but a song they heard a thousand times in Australia echoes through the room.

He sings the harmonies at the beginning and the ‘ _sleep now under my skin make sure you try to conjure the wind’_ and the chorus and the bridge but Zayn’s lost, by then, lost in his strong voice which settles low in his spine and refuses to dilute into his blood.

Social conventions would dictate that he should clap or compliment him or maybe sing to the next song (something old, something jazzy, something out of his range), but instead he smirks. “And I thought all swimmers were steroid-pumped tasteless arseholes.”

Liam looks a little affronted and Zayn wants to kiss away that momentary frown, but Liam grins back and the moment passes. “I’ve never touched steroids,” he scowls, “and I thought all boy bands were needy, auto-tuned, tasteless arseholes.”

He makes a noise and squirms against the pavement. “Oh please. I’m all natural and raw and I have an _excellent_ taste.”

(he considers adding ‘ _in the bedroom sugar_ ’ but it’s barely been an hour)

Liam shifts close. “Are you needy?” ( _in the bedroom_ )

Zayn grins. “You’ll find out, eventually.”

His muscles freeze, half out of the water now, before dunking under and splashing him on the way up. Zayn quickly rearranges his hair and splashes back and it continues like that, with MGMT in the background and his clothes sticking to his cold skin and that lightness in his lungs and heaviness in his heart, until Liam raises his hands in mock surrender. He props up on his elbows beside him.

“Swim with me,” he says, and everything – the cockiness, the vulnerability, the teasing – is gone, leaving a nineteen year old boy in a too big pool.

Zayn smiles through the chills. “I can’t swim,” he admits.

He looks lost, for a moment, lost in the ‘ _if you leave I won’t cry I won’t waste a single day_ ’, before he comes a little closer. “I’ll teach you,” he promises, climbing out of the pool. He passes Zayn his spare towel and wraps his own around his shoulders and leads him all the way back to the village. “Tomorrow. It’s like singing and you’ll love it I swear.”

Zayn flashes him a smile and glances at the birthmark in the hollow of his neck and it’s so endearing he needs to look away. “You don’t need luck,” he says softly, “but you get mine anyway.”

Liam grins back and they smile stupidly at each other until the Big Ben, all the way across town, chimes at the hour mark.

  


/ / /

  


“Zayn,” Niall says, scrolling through his Twitter feed while they wait. The reporters eye them curiously but focus on the streams of athletes and it’s nice, really, to be in orbit instead of in focus. “Please tell me someone hacked you and you didn’t tweet Liam this morning in front of five million followers.”

Louis almost falls out of Harry’s lap in his haste. “Malik, you didn’t!” he exclaims, but he sounds too pleased to reprimand. His delicate hands grab the phone and the two thousand people in the row turn when he roars with laughter.

Harry reads over his shoulder. “@Real_Liam_Payne,” he mocks, in a weak imitation of Zayn’s voice, “you get mine anyway.”

Louis raises an eyebrow. “He replied,” he says, and he _knows_ , he’s read it a million times. “@zaynmalik maybe we could get dinner before rolling around all sweaty?”

 “That one’s not him,” Zayn says half-heartedly, avidly watching the barrier for caramel hair and warm eyes. “It’s-”

“And _then_ he wrote ‘@JamesMagnussen my hatred for you is unrivalled’,” Harry interrupts, “and ‘@zaynmalik you me low lighting and carbohydrates at seven?’”

Louis grins and Zayn hides his burning cheeks in Niall’s hair. “You bought him flowers for your date?” he asks softly, and Zayn flicks him two fingers in response. “Wow, you really are hopeless.”

He scowls and turns back to the pool while the three of them – the pricks – plan innuendos for interviews and Meeting Liam (capitalised).

“This is _painful_ ,” Niall groans, fixing his hair. In the early sunlight, the blond looks almost white, and Zayn’s reminded of late nights and packets of seven-day-dye. “This is like Harry with Caroline.”

Zayn pouts a little into the bouquet in his lap and listens to the announcer introduce the semi-finalists.

“Worse,” Harry laughs. “You’re like me with _Lou_.”

“Don’t kid yourself, Curly,” Louis teases. “Sixteen year old Styles reached a whole new level of hero worship.”

Harry elbows him in the ribs and Louis starts pressing messy, hard kisses up his neck in retaliation but that’s white static to Zayn because Liam’s been introduced and he’s already shedding his clothes.

He catches the eye of Billy in the tech booth and, as promised, Two Door Cinema Club blares through the speakers. The swimmers nearly jump out of their skin but Liam, Liam stretches his arms in time and-

(he looks up and searches the crowd hopefully but their eyes don’t meet)

“Staring,” Harry whispers, but he doesn’t look away. He watches Liam flash one of the competitors a smile and take a deep breath and dive in and then he’s lost.

“Holy fuck,” Niall laughs, and Zayn nods in agreement because _holy fuck_ Liam’s good, he’s fast and strong and his adrenalin is contagious, and Zayn can’t conceal the soft, excited whimpers or the shaking or the breathless cheering.

Liam wins (of course he wins) and the camera zooms in as he’s hoisted out of the water by one of his teammates and Zayn can’t help it. He trips between legs and down stairs and into his line of vision.

Liam looks at Zayn and the bouquet and the twenty-six cameras and disentangles himself so quickly he flicks water all over. “ _You_ ,” he accuses, a little breathless, and tugs him into a hug.

Zayn grins. Liam automatically tightens his hold and swings in an effort to shield them from the cameras.

“You’re not meant to be here,” Liam accuses happily. Zayn’s feet are knocked off the ground and he thinks his heart floats all the way into the clouds.

Zayn shrugs. “Winners deserve flowers.”

Liam squirms a little, but into his arms instead of away. “I don’t need _courting,_ ” he scowls, smiling against his neck. And then, quieter, as though he’s afraid someone will hear – “no one’s bought me flowers before.”

(his heart swells at that and he’s sure Liam can feel it against his shirt)

His hands are drawing soft shapes into his back. “Is this okay?” he whispers, wet hair saturating Zayn’s shirt.

_Yes yes yes yes,_ he wants to say, loud enough for the fifteen thousand people to hear, _so okay that you should never move never let go never leave_. Instead, he tightens his grip on his shoulder and only lets go for the press and walks around in damp, chlorinated clothes for the rest of the day.

  


/ / /

  


“Stop fixing your hair,” Louis scowls, cuddling against Zayn’s back, slapping the brush out of his hands. Zayn frowns and slaps back. “Your quiff may be pretty indestructible but I don’t think it can withstand international chlorine standards.”

He stares at Louis scathingly in the reflection. “You fix your hair before bed, arsehole, you cannot judge.”

Louis opens his mouth to protest but Harry steps out of the kitchen to cut them both off. “Stop worrying,” he says idly, standing behind them and tangling his arms around the two bodies, “the whole world loves you together, even without hair product. They’re calling you two the next Brangelina.”

Zayn smothers a noise against the mirror. “ _Please_ tell me we don’t have a ship name.”

Niall, from his upside-down position at the foot of their bed, laughs and takes another swig of his beer. “Maybe you shouldn’t check Twitter.”

Harry grins. “Or Facebook.”

“Or Youtube.”

“Or any news website.”

“Or tumblr.”

“You don’t _have_ a tumblr, Lou.”

“Which is a true testament to your intense flirting, Malik,” Louis laughs. “Stop fighting fate. Embrace the support!”

“Besides, you’re totally the Angelina,” Niall adds, and Zayn wants to seep into the carpet and never ever return.

“I’m the homewrecker?” he asks, a little hysterically, half from the nerves and half from the _very_ graphic memory of a girl in New York ditching her wedding for coffee with him.

“Of course not,” Harry soothes, fingers massaging his shoulders, mouth twisted into a sceptical frown as he watches Niall. “But I think he’s a Brad. He has the heartbreaker-heartache-heartburn smoulder.”

Niall stretches across the floor, revealing a pale strip of skin just above his waistband. “Nah. He has the eyes and the lips and the pointless-”

(Zayn makes a noise of protest)

“- tattoos. He’s an Angelina.”

“I guess he likes a cock in his-”

“Do not finish that sentence,” Louis scowls, “bottoming is _not_ more feminine, Harold-”

“That’s not even my _name_ -”

“Besides, muscles and height do not equate to a top, Haz, you and I being _Exhibit A-_ ”

Niall chokes on his bottle behind the three of them. “Please stop talking about your sex life.”

“We don’t have a sex life off tour,” they say, in perfect synchronisation, and Niall and Zayn’s scoff (also in perfect synchronisation) is interrupted by the firm knock at the archway.

Zayn hip checks Harry and Louis aside and skids across the room. Liam looks a little nervous and a lot happy and he’s not wearing the skin tight material to reduce friction and increase performance – he’s wearing a set of bathers that look as new as Zayn’s.

(Zayn had dragged Harry across the city to buy a pair that day, just for Liam, just for his eyes, but he doesn’t want anyone to know that quite yet)

Liam’s stare drags over his loose v-neck and it pauses on the exposed tattoo on his collarbone. “You,” he says happily, stepping forward, “you look fantastic.”

Zayn grins and Liam grins back and they smile at each other for a wonderful, uninterrupted moment, until-

“We were just discussing your sex life,” Louis teases, arms wrapped around Harry with his feet in Niall’s lap, “do you top?”

“Lou,” Zayn groans, automatically burying his blush against Liam’s shoulder. They roll under the touch. “We were _not_ you don’t need to tell them _-_ ”

Liam grins. “They’re going to hear it in a few days,” he whispers against the shell of his ear. Louis moans a ‘ _fuck that’s hot Niall you should dirty talk me in public’_ and Zayn shifts restlessly. Then, a little louder, for the others – “I like both.”

Niall glances up from his phone. “Both?”

Taut muscles stretch under Zayn’s cheek and he’s overwhelmed with the impulse to soothe out all the stiffness buried in his cells. “I like pushing in deep and I like being full. It’s an equal opportunity.”

Zayn stares at him seriously for a moment and presses against him, before whispering a ‘fuck’ and dragging him into the hallway.

Liam’s smile shifts into something infinitely sweeter when they’re alone. Zayn can still feel the pressure of his collarbone against his skin but he doesn’t mention it, just follows him mindlessly through the city until they reach the centre.

He bumps his shoulder and places a heavy hand on the small of his back to keep him close. “Big love and good luck to @Real_Liam_Payne,” he recites softly, fingers squeezing his hip. “That broke my Twitter.”

Zayn grins and squirms under his touch. “Sorry for my display of support,” he teases, and Liam’s eyes brighten in the dark hallway of the centre.

“Don’t be,” he says, “I’m not,” and he looks like he wants to say more, but instead he just presses his fingertips into his spine and guides him all the way to the edge.

  


/ / /

  


“Ready?” Liam asks, once they’re undressed with softer, gentler, sweeter music in the background.

His toes brush over the cold water and he shakes his head stubbornly.

Strong arms wrap around his waist, hands gripping his hips, fingers tracing the waistband in the most suggestive manner possible. “I _swear_ you’re safe,” he says softly, and they sway softly to the Rolling Stones in the background. His leg brushes against Zayn’s when he stretches forward to toe a stretch of plastic beside the pool. “I’ll keep you safe. And if I can’t do that, this goes under your hips and keeps you afloat. You have physics _and_ me on your side.”

Zayn twists to shoot him a sceptical look and decides to stay there, neck twisted, hair mixing with Liam’s. Their bare skin presses together and _yes_ , that’s the necessary distraction. He grins at Liam. “Why are you hairless?”

Liam huffs out a laugh. “It reduces friction,” he says slowly, in a lower register, just for him, “I thought you’d know all about that, babe-”

A shamelessly horrified groan escapes his hips and Zayn grins and steps into the water so it laps around his neck. Liam follows, smiling into his hair, and whispers a soft litany of ‘ _you’re doing so so well, babe, you’re safe I’m here you know I won’t let you go’_ until his heartbeat slows and he relaxes against Liam’s back.

  


/ / /

  


Admittedly, Zayn only remembers this:

Liam has an arm wrapped around his waist and he’s wading enough for both of them, but every few verses he’ll crack a joke or sneak his fingers into his sides and produce a wave of shivers and squirms and thrashes from Zayn that keep him afloat.

The arms disappear halfway through a story and instead fingers trail along his waistband underwater and Zayn automatically shifts his legs to keep the contact. Liam grins and sneaks a little under the drawstrings ( _just a little_ ) in reward.

  


/ / /

  


And this:

His own voice, their single, echoes throughout the stadium. “Seriously?”

Liam grins and nudges him back onto his stomach. The water is cool on his chest in comparison to the heat in his touch. “No shame,” he laughs, then changing tactics and prodding the sensitive skin behind his knees so he automatically kicks. “Did I tell you how I discovered the whole beat tactic?”

Zayn shakes his head but keeps kicking – at first, because of the momentum, and then because the frothing water drowns out his singing, and then because Liam’s fingers are all over him and he needs the distraction.

The song changes in the background and Liam starts swimming beside him, something lazy which doesn’t quite have a name. “I was training and you were performing on the show,” he says softly, reaching over to reteach the positioning of Zayn’s hips. His fingers stay there for a moment too long. “And I couldn’t sing along because I was underwater, so I tried to match my strokes instead and your voice was all I heard in between.”

Their contact breaks and fingers start dancing all over his back, sneaking over the waistband and across kicking ankles and along the veins in his thighs.

“You’re so distracting,” he says softly, and Zayn shivers all over. “Your arse is on display for me, like this, and all I can think of is propping you over the edge on the concrete so I can pull these down and tongue at your rim until you scream loud enough for it to echo through my race tomorrow.”

A blush stains his cheeks and he quickly tugs the plastic out from under his hips to hide underwater, and he learns to swim with Liam’s husky laugh and heavy promises in his ear.

  


/ / /

  


And this:

“ _No_ ,” he says stubbornly, tucking his chin closer to his chest. He likes lying with his stomach and skimming his nose and hair and lips along the water, and he likes the feeling of tension in his legs when he kicks, but he is _not_ -

A finger trails up his spine in time with his laughter. It feels like an assault and it feels like Zayn is losing. “It’s wonderful underwater. I promise.”

Zayn shakes his head and nails are raked over his back in response.

“There’s no _oxygen_ underwater,” he argues.

Liam raises an eyebrow, tracing the feather tattoo. “Your substandard and incomplete education is showing, darling,” he teases, and Zayn splashes the smile off his cheeks.

His smile melts into something a little more fond and Zayn melts into something a little warmer. “I’m right here,” he promises, hand curling around the nape of his neck, “you can trust me. Just take a deep breath-”

(he obliges)

“- and focus on my fingers and the music-”

(his body sinks a little heavier into the water and Liam tickles across his shoulders in reward)

“- and go underwater and breathe out nice and slow and come up when you need to.”

The water caresses his cheeks as Zayn breathes out bubbles. Liam tightens his grip on his shoulder on the way up.

“Wow,” he laughs huskily, reaching up to push Zayn’s wet fringe out his eyes. His fingers graze all over his jaw on the way back. “ _Fuck_ you’re gorgeous.”

He practises until he doesn’t flinch anymore, and when he surfaces, Liam’s eyes are blown and there are little crescent marks all over his shoulder.

“You,” he says breathlessly, squirming in place, before flashing him a grin and sinking a little. “One more. Open your eyes, this time.”

The fingernail marks sting his shoulders and he focuses on that as he sinks underwater. When he opens his eyes, the fuzzy outline of Liam is swaying before him, just a few metres below the surface, arms stretched out to display his muscles.

They grin at each other and Liam reaches forward to touch his floating hair and the burn in his lungs isn’t entirely due to the lack of oxygen.

  


/ / /

  


Liam teaches him to freestyle and changes his mind halfway through, swimming just under Zayn and resurfacing with him on top. He tugs Zayn’s thighs onto his hips and carries him out of the water. Their bodies shiver in the warm air.

“Hungry?” he asks, depositing Zayn on the ground behind the bleachers. Hands rub up and down his arms to create friction and there’s a blanket and a candle, as though he planned this, and Zayn just wants to kiss him. “I promised my coach I’d eat tonight.”

He raises an eyebrow and takes the offered container sceptically.

“Oh fuck off,” Liam laughs, but there’s no heat to it, “as if you don’t do everything your manager tells you to. Do _letter jackets_ ring a bell?”

Zayn throws a piece of chicken at him. It’s caught easily. “Not _everything_ they ask,” he admits, staring at the place their hands almost meet. Fingers deliberately ghost over his and Zayn hides his grin in the low lighting. “And I don’t change my lifestyle on command.”

He rolls his eyes. “Your affinity for nicotine makes that apparent.”

(Zayn’s chest tightens at the disapproving tone and he frowns at the sensation and the urge to promise ‘ _I’d quit I’d quit for you’_ )

Instead, he lets the towels fall from his back. Eyes trace over his exposed skin. “Why don’t you wear a suit?” he asks, and Liam flashes him a smile as he pours the iced tea.

“Why don’t you auto-tune?” he counters, stretching out his legs to kick his ankle gently. Zayn kicks back. “It’s cheap. It’s cheating. It’s relying on technology instead of talent.”

Somehow their legs shift to touch. “Are they similar? Swimming and singing?”

Liam grins and turns to press their sides together. “It’s the same,” he says softly, breath cool from the lemon twists, “it’s all adrenalin and fun and attention and it’s that missing piece, right, it’s like you’re only you when you’re in the water, and the pool is the stage and medals are the awards and everyone _loves_ each other, we’re like a family, we stretch together and room together and eat dinner during meets and it’s peaceful, it’s the calm, it’s a whole new world that’s only for you.”

The air’s warm and Zayn feels like he’s falling – not in love, not from the clouds – just falling. They stare shamelessly and it’s as though they’re going to close the gap between their lips and learn the shape of their bodies with their fingertips, but then the song ends and Liam looks away first.

Zayn grins and stirs the dish. “What’s this?”

Their bodies twist towards each other. There’s a hand heavy on the blanket just behind his arse. Liam’s chin hovers above his shoulder and he’s different, out of the water, a little nervous and a little shy and a little younger. “There’s the protein,” he says, pointing at the chicken, “that’s for essential amino acids and cell repair. There are carbohydrates in the rice for energy, spinach for folic acid and iron, starch in the potato, and vitamins in the carrot and peas.”

The heartbeat against his back slows and Zayn asks - “are you nervous?”, nudging his fork through the rice to find all the peas. He automatically scoops them into Liam’s bowl and Liam picks out all the carrots and does the same. “About tomorrow, I mean.”

He nods, staring at the Arabic on his collarbone. “Are you?”

Bravado convinces him to shrug and Liam shoulders him in response. “We struggle with lung capacity.”

Liam watches him for a moment and settles a little closer. “I can’t wink,” he whispers, keeping his arm pressed up against his body, “or swim breaststroke because it’s fucking impossible or bake a cake. No one will hate you if you’re a little out of breath.”

His body presses back. “Can you wink for me?” he asks, a little sweeter than his usual voice. Liam squirms and blinks really hard and Zayn just wants to push aside the food and the candle and the towels and bury himself in the crook of his neck.

Instead, he wraps his hand around his wrist and eats awkwardly to keep the contact.

They talk (over the hum of the machinery, just under the gentle music) while they eat, and the candle burns out as they shift a little closer.

Liam stretches his arms behind him and his shoulder muscles work under the stress. “Just stay here a little longer,” he says softly, and Zayn melts at the tone, “you’re not allowed to swim yet and I-”

(‘ _want to keep you here’_ )

They wriggle closer and nails scratch his hair and he nudges into the touch and they stay there in the dark for a little longer than necessary.

  


/ / /

  


A little bit later, after a play of _Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club_ and a few too many accidental touches and a dozen too few with intention, Liam places a warm hand on the bare small of his back and leads him back into the water.

Halfway in and halfway through a story about sneaking out in Australia (‘ _the streets are_ insane _Liam, they were all in one direction and do_ not _make the joke puns are the lowest form of humour, arsehole’_ ), Liam turns around and flashes him a grin which freezes all his muscles together.

“What is it?” Liam teases, wading the deep water, “don’t you trust me?”

(and no, no, no, that’s not it, it’s the opposite, it’s the way Liam’s somehow gained his trust and snuck into him without any resistance on Zayn’s behalf, and that scares him a lot more than the deep water)

He takes Zayn’s silence as a sign of weakness (which it is, _fuck_ ) and swims a little closer. The happiness crashes like waves against his skin. “Please let me return the favour.”

He’s rearranged onto his back and careful hands spread his limbs in a way that feels more sweet than sexual.

Liam’s hand is wrapped around the back of his neck like a promise and the touch burns against the tattoo. “Lie back,” he says softly, pressing simultaneously against his side and the nape of his neck.

He flashes Liam a doubtful look but obliges anyway, sinking into the touch and into the water, and it’s terrifying, he wants to press _harder_ and he wants to cry and he wants to crawl out of the unforgiving water, but instead-

It’s silent. It’s silent and peaceful and _numb_ , numbing like nicotine used to be, numbing like music will always be, numbing in a way he has begun to associate with the boy beside him. The Temptations are muted and his heartbeat echoes and-

“Wow,” he breathes.

Liam laughs and Zayn feels it through the water. “Wow,” he repeats, eyes locked on Zayn, fingers trailing down his bare back and sneaking between their bodies to tangle around his wrist.

(and it’s a little cheap and a little cheesy and it feels like a line from someone else’s lips, but that doesn’t stop Zayn’s smile, doesn’t stop the blush staining his cheeks, and certainly doesn’t stop the automatic way his body lolls to the side to share both with Liam)

  


/ / /

  


Afterwards, Liam passes him a towel and that grey jumper from the qualifiers. He talks while they dress – a soft hum of ‘ _tonight was brilliant I hoped you liked it and hey it’s okay to need to escape, I need it too, and I know you’re scared about the ceremony but you’ll be fantastic, Zayn, you’re crafted for greatness’_ over the James Morrison – and the jumper smells of chlorine and Axe body spray and _Liam_ and he wants to keep it forever.

A hand heavy on his back leads him all the way up to the penthouse and under their breaths they talk about their families and their schedules and Zayn laps it up eagerly.

He’s deliberately fumbling for his room key because he wants to hold onto _this_ ( _this_ being the chlorine, the low lighting, Liam’s nervous smile and his own shaky breaths) for as long as possible. Liam’s loose and happy and he thinks it’s safe to dive in, maybe, if there’s the crinkly smile to save him.

The door is tugged open and Louis – from the doorway, with a mischievous smile and a cup of tea, as though he planned this – raises an eyebrow at them.

Somewhere in the lazy conversation, Liam had pressed Zayn gently against the wall and started tracing his forearm tattoos and Zayn’s fingers had tangled in his shirt. He thinks about moving away for a total of three seconds before deciding against it.

“Shameless, Bradford,” Louis teases, “putting out on the third date?”

(‘ _only our second’_ , Zayn whispers softly, ‘ _one more’_ and Liam laughs and smiles and groans all at once)

“Jealous, Lou?” he laughs, tugging Liam closer. There’s a smile against his shoulder but Liam complies and nuzzles close and grinds his hips in an idle circle.

Louis grins fondly and sneaks back into the room. “Painfully. No hickeys, kids, Paul will murder you and throw your frail body into the Thames.”

( _‘not frail,’_ Liam mumbles, against his skin, _‘and I’d save you’_ )

They stay like that, for a moment, cuddled against the wall until affection fills Zayn’s lungs and escapes from his lips.

“I think you’re-” he starts, and there is no adjective appropriate to describe him, so he settles with – “the calm.”

Liam laughs and clenches his wrist a little tighter. “That’s good,” he says, more to his neck than to Zayn himself, “because I think you’re the breaths in-between.”

He considers kissing him, considers tugging him inside and grinding away the nervous twist of his lips, but instead he tightens his grip on his shirt and whispers ‘good luck’ until Liam laughs into his shoulder.

  


/ / /

  


They have a morning interview the next day and Liam’s final is in the early afternoon and Zayn’s nervous, he’s shaking, he feels like they’re on the edge of something brilliant and he’s afraid and excited all at once.

He sneaks out before dawn and takes a left instead of a right and he’s halfway through the buzzing aquatic centre when he’s tugged behind the bleachers and into a hug.

“You,” Liam says breathily, into his neck, “what are you doing here?”

His arms tighten a little more than necessary. “What are you doing under the bleachers?”

“Waiting to snog you,” he teases, and then blushes furiously. “Hiding from the press, actually, you would know all about that.”

He scratches the hair at the nape of his neck and Liam squirms in response. “I know all about wanting to snog you.”

“ _Zayn_ ,” he scolds, grinning into his shoulder. There’s a pressure on his neck and it might be a pair of lips, but that might be a little wishful. “Why are you here?”

“I needed to wish you luck,” he admits, and yes,  _there’s_ the kiss that neither of them are quite ready for. Zayn tries to bite on the groan of encouragement and kisses his collarbone instead.

That’s how they spend the next twenty minutes, kissing all over strong shoulders and laughing in-between.

Zayn’s the first to pull away, but he keeps his arms heavy around him and presses their foreheads together. He considers kissing him properly, but the fear in his blood holds him back. “Music’s on your side, sweetheart,” he says, and Liam’s breath is hot against his lips, “and so am I.”

Liam grins a little helplessly and they don’t kiss, but something fresh and bright flashes in his eyes and Zayn wants to drown in them.

(and in him, too)

  


/ / /

  


He’s distracted all the way through the interview and the whole ride back. He registers, he does, he hears them ask about Liam and the closing ceremony and the new album, but none of that matters quite as much as seeing the final.

They’re in the car and Louis is teasing him softly to calm him down, a long breath of ‘ _you’re going to get fucked tonight, darling, he’s not going to be able to control himself’_  which leaves him hot all over and smothering his smile in the heavy bouquet of flowers in his lap.

He misses the beginning of the race but catches the end. The crowd’s screaming and Liam a whole body’s length ahead and the contagious smile cracks his wet lips when he realises he’s won.

He’s pulled out of the water by a few teammates Zayn doesn’t recognise but that melts away, everything melts away, because Liam sees him through all the people and pushes everything else aside.

“You,” he says breathlessly, as though it’s the only word he can remember, “ _you-_ ”

Fingers curl in Zayn’s leather jacket and he pushes him backwards, through the crowd, out of sight, and against the wall. He makes a soft noise of protest and the huff of breath forced from him is smothered by Liam’s rough kiss.

“I will always associate the best week of my life with you, Zayn Malik,” he accuses, hands pinning his hips to the wall. He tastes like chlorine and Powerade and like the rest of his life. “I hope you’re pleased, arsehole.”

“So pleased,” he says, and Liam groans into his mouth and chases the noise with his tongue. “And I hope that’s where this is heading.”

He nods and their noses brush together as he licks against his teeth. “After the interviews,” he promises, shoving the jacket off his shoulders, “after the presentation, I’m going to feel those trembles from the inside out, I swear.”

Zayn groans and Liam grinds against his hips in response and when they leave their lips are bruised and their hair is messy and Zayn’s heart is somewhere in the clouds.

  


/ / /

  


He gives Liam his bouquet in front of twenty thousand people and the whole world and something beautiful and possessive coils in his stomach when Liam holds his hand during all his interviews.

  


/ / /

  


They’re barely through the door when Liam pulls off his shirt, shoving him against the wall. The crowd’s cheering on the streets below and there’s James Brown blaring from a set of amps and Zayn’s needy and warm all over.

“I beat the world record,” he mumbles, against his lips, between kisses. Zayn squirms into his touch and against the wall. “They offered me a sponsorship and I had an erection the whole time from thinking of you – here – under me.”

He whimpers a little into his mouth and gnaws at his lips to cover the noise. “I was being patient,” he breathes into his mouth and Liam groans in response. A hand wraps around a thigh to hoist him up easily. “Adrenalin drives you insane. It could have been rape.”

“Consensual,” he says huskily. He tugs at his zipper and pushes him closer to the wall to pull off their pants and bathers in one clumsy movement. “This is completely consensual.”

Zayn grins and sneaks his fingers down, shivering a little at the endless expanse of soft, skin. “Bare here?” he asks breathlessly, drawing circles around the clean shaven root of his cock. Liam shakes at the touch.

“Reduces friction,” he repeats, “and super –  _fuck –_ sensitive.”

He grins and rubs against him, precome smearing against his groin, and they both shiver at the touch. He’s distracted with soft kisses and slippery fingers circling carefully around his hole.

“ _Please_ ,” he whispers, just once, and Liam slides them in carefully.

Their kisses falter as they adjust to the feeling and when Liam starts to move, they both shake a little.

He wraps his legs around his waist and grinds down on slick fingers. “You can-”

Lips are pressed against his neck and his body is pushed a little harder against the wall. “I bench press your weight,” he says cockily, but it’s ruined by the shameless groan that falls from his lips when Zayn tightens around him. “I can handle you.”

“I can handle you,” he repeats, sucking at his jaw until a bruise forms, “test me,  _show me-_ ”

A breath hitches (it might be his or it might be Liam’s or it might be both of theirs) as he pulls out and scratches across his thighs and lubes up his cock.

He pauses, slick head nudging against his hole, fingers pressing into his hips to hold him up. “Next time,” he whispers, sweetly kissing his neck, “next time we’ll go slow and horizontal and careful. I will make it so good for you, sweetheart, I will shatter you and put you back together-”

His hips buck shamelessly to sink onto his cock and that moment, with Liam buried inside, burning up all his neurons, fills his lungs with water.

They’re still for a little too long and he’s whimpering shamelessly into his neck, scratching down his back where the hints of chlorine stain his muscles. He clenches his thighs over his hips and Liam starts thrusting, quick and deep and  _brutal_  in a way that reduces Zayn to whining within seconds.

He grinds back onto his cock, presses their foreheads together, and starts whispering non-sequitur nonsense against his lips like ‘ _all day Liam all day before the race before the bleachers before last night’_  and ‘ _you’re strong and I’m boneless’_  and ‘ _lets fuck everyday please orgasms are good for the soul’_.

Liam grins against his lips and sneaks his fingers to his hole, rubbing gently around the sensitive rim while he snaps his hips, and that’s all it takes.

Zayn comes hot and untouched between them and the noise Liam makes is weak and strong and happy and destroyed all at once. He bites into his collarbone, just over the tattoo, and stutters his hips and almost slams him through the plaster in his climax.

There’s sweat down his spine and between their touching skin. Liam licks at the beads accumulating under his jaw and laughs over the cool saliva. “Fuck,” he breathes, and Zayn’s answering ‘ _wow_ ’ prompts hands to travel from his arse to his waist and cuddle close.

He carries him all the way to the bed and fits him between the sheets. They kiss until the sun sets and the swell of his heart ambushes Zayn and robs him of everything but Liam and the dark room and the smell of chlorine.

And a few hours later, their reckless kisses are matched with careful hands and Liam shows him just how gentle he can be.

  


/ / /

  


Liam’s nervous beside him as they walk into the cafe where the band met before recording and drank strong coffee with hangovers and ate ice-cream right before Christmas. He’s raking his nails over Zayn’s spine and he might be drawing blood and Zayn ignores how much he likes the possibility.

The boys are at the table and stop whispering the second they approach. They jostle a little over the chairs and he raises an eyebrow during the distraction. “This is Liam,” he introduces, tangling their fingers together between their plates, “and you should play fair and be nice.”

Niall grins wolfishly and piles eggs between his toast. “You’re a fangirl fantasy come true.”

Liam laughs and steals all the soft bacon from Zayn’s plate and piles on the crispy strips. “I actually don’t know your music too well,” he admits.

Louis grins and Zayn kicks him hard. “Actually, we were talking about-”

“That’s Louis,” he interrupts, “he’s an arsehole. So are Harry and Niall, left and right.”

There’s a line of grease over his bottom lip that glistens when he smiles. “I know who they are,” he says, “my flatmate wants to shag all four of you.”

Harry’s eyes brighten and he reaches for Liam’s tomatoes. “Do you happen to live with Tom Daley?”

He slaps his hand away but piles them onto his plate anyway. “No, but he always plays your music at the pool.”

They settle into the conversation and Zayn loves this, loves Liam between him and his friends with their thighs pressed together. He doesn’t want to leave, he’s  _never_  going to leave, but then a group of guys in matching sweatpants enter and Liam’s out of his chair and in one of their laps before he can argue.

“He’s like us,” Harry says, as one of the boys nuzzles into his hair and gives him his coffee, and Zayn hides his fond smile with an unlit cigarette between his lips.

Liam comes back to the table a little later and the boys sing ‘ _sugar, oh honey honey’_  until he flips them off.

The sun’s hot but the look Liam shoots him is hotter as he lifts Zayn from his seat and pulls him into his lap. His fingers slip into his lips to pull out the cigarette and his tongue follows to lick away the taste of nicotine.

“Sorry,” he says, unfazed, to the rest of the band. “That’s my team. We usually come here together.”

Hands slip under his shirt and toy at the hair below his bellybutton. Zayn squirms. “Our studio is across the road.”

Liam kisses his neck. “My apartment’s just around the corner. We’ve probably-”

(‘ _seen each other ordered coffee together bumped fingers over the sugar stand’_ )

He stretches to expose more skin. “If you’d chosen differently-”

“We might have come together as a band,” Louis says, absentmindedly, but in a tone that insists he’s thought about it like Zayn has, thought about Liam in the Bungalow or hiding with them in nameless cities or being another person to share their whole life with.

Liam stares for a moment, maybe fitting them into his own life, before leaning across the table to steal Louis’ bacon. “Or I would have beaten all four of you,” he teases, before nudging his knee against Zayn’s under the table and whispering – “and I would have spent two whole years with you between my sheets.”

Zayn grins and prods his ribs in retaliation and pulls back immediately when Liam winces a little too loud. “Okay, darling?” he asks, biting back the endearment a moment too late.

His eyes brighten with pleasure and he stares at his drink to hide it from the world. “A little stiff,” he admits, “from the-”

“Kinky, contortionist sex?” Louis suggests, and Zayn chucks the crust from his toast at him.

Harry grins and takes a sip of his tea. “Beating a world record?”

“Corrupting our poor Malik beyond recognition?” Niall offers, and Liam grins into his neck and stays there.

That’s all he can focus on for the rest of breakfast and everyone notices. Liam’s a fucking tease, resting a hand on the inside of his thigh and grinding back tauntingly and dragging his eyes down his body every few bites.

When Zayn reaches for his wallet, Liam makes a noise of disapproval that drives him insane and drops him onto the other chair. He pays for the five of them and buys Zayn a coffee just the way he likes and he thinks he might defile his favourite cafe if Liam continues smirking into his skin. 

He’s wound tight all the way up his spine when they finish and he knows how it must look, his flushed cheeks and fingers wrapped tense around Liam’s wrist, but his virtue and calibre is the last thing on his mind as he hauls his –  _no_  – to his apartment because it’s twenty minutes closer than his hotel.

Liam starts tugging at his zipper, fingers brushing obscenely over his cock every few seconds. “Eager?” he teases, a little smug, but he whimpers when Zayn shoves away his hands to pull him into a kiss.

He waits until he’s pliant and smiling under his hands to push him all the way into his spare room. They stumble into a door as he hastily shoves down Liam’s sweats and he laughs and groans into his mouth at once.

“No boxers?” he asks, and bites at his lips when he tries to respond. “Actually don’t answer. Lift up.”

The hitch is Liam’s breath is muffled by the cotton pulled over his mouth. “I thought you were going to show me your photo albums.”

“After I make you scream,” he promises, nuzzling down his chest to nose at the inside of his elbows. “But right now, I want you to grab the bar and do a pull-up and hold it there.”

Liam obliges and Zayn presses a quick kiss to his lips before dropping to his knees. He brushes chapped lips over the defined hip lines until Liam’s tensing his arms to simultaneously evade and sink into the pressure.

The first hot breath over the shaft forces a broken noise out of Liam’s throat and he was going to go slow, he was going to suck bruises down his thighs and lick the creases between his limbs and kiss gently around the head, but that noise ruins him too. Zayn sucks him to the root and swallows around the head and Liam’s loose and whining beneath him.

He licks sloppily up the shaft and settles on his heels, hands gripping his hips while he takes him deep and keeps him there, groaning needily as Liam squirms out of his mouth.

“Don’t make noises like that,” he scowls, breathing heavy.

He grins and scratches his stubble over the inside of his thighs. “Noises like what?” he asks teasingly, nuzzling into his groin. His lips are smeared with precome and spit and he licks it off eagerly and Liam moans in response.

His cock jolts a little. “Like you’re starving for my cock.”

“What if I am?” he teases, shifting grab the lube and kiss around his perineum. The floor is hard under his knees as he slicks up two fingers, trailing them in circles around his hole and breathing around them. Then, lower, softer – “what if I’m starving for something else?”

Before he can protest, Zayn pushes a finger inside, licking obscenely at where their bodies meet, feeling him fall apart with every gentle thrust. “Smooth  _everywhere_  aren’t you?” he teases, and wriggles his tongue inside.

Liam shakes deep to his bones. “Friction,” he repeats, and lasts a total of six seconds before contracting his biceps and moaning loud enough to echo and wriggling out of reach, “but stop  _stop_  I’ll pass out and strain a muscle your  _tongue_ Zayn-”

He smirks and shifts to suck at his shaft again, tight and wet and a little too much for either of them. Liam clenches around the fingers automatically and Zayn swallows around the head until he’s wriggling, desperate, unsure whether to thrust in deeper or grind against the penetration.

He manages both and Zayn gives in. The  _sight_  of him, muscles stretched taut with sweat dripping down his torso and mouth lax and wild and forming unrecognisable noises and ‘ _please please Zayn_ please’, is enough to force a blur of testosterone through his blood. He groans helplessly around his cock and palms at his erection through the denim.

Thighs settle on his shoulders and press down impatiently. “Are you touching yourself?” he asks roughly, and then, rougher – “Zayn, you’ll be the death of me” – and his name sounds so pretty from those lips.

Liam shifts to free one of his hands and trail sore fingers down his jaw and slip into his mouth to feel their touching skin. They hold down his tongue as his hips stutter and Liam comes all the way down his throat.

He swallows and the taste of sweat and boy and chlorine shouldn’t taste so good but he can’t help licking him clean.

A car honks below them and Liam slowly drops to the floor and nudges him back to mouth eagerly at his crotch until Zayn freezes all over.

The sun is heavy in the sky when they move from the unforgiving floor to the cool sheets. Liam’s blush stains his cheeks as he shows him all his baby photos, and Zayn can’t help studying the line of his jaw for the rest of the afternoon.

  


/ / /

  


The next day, he wakes up to a cold bed and the sound of Liam across the room. He’s coaching Harry through some breathing exercises with a hand spread across his abdomen and that husky morning voice is saying  _‘see just breathe with your diaphragm not your chest it increases lung capacity by something crazy, and I know you’re nervous but when you’re surfacing from somewhere deep you need to breathe out slowly so nitrogen doesn’t compress your brain so just breathe, okay, cuddle your band who loves you, sing to the world who loves you, and you will grow into your lungs’_.

A few songs later, when Harry’s retaught his stiff body, he wraps his arms around Liam’s neck and whispers something that Zayn can’t hear and he’s not quite sure why he likes watching his halves merge so much.

Liam sees and crawls back into bed with a ‘ _morning sleepy’_  and they kiss lazily until their lips are bruised. The boys leave and Zayn cuddles into his cold skin.

Afterwards, he pulls out his laptop and tugs Liam between his legs and plays him all the videos from the tour and the Brits and the nights in-between.

And later, after he’s twisted all the way in his grip to kiss him a million times, Liam pulls out his Mac to show him his iTunes and he sings old jazz songs and ‘ _going nowhere fast we’ve reached the climax’_  in a falsetto that drives him insane.

(so insane that he knocks the computer to the side, takes a dozen photos of them cuddling with the webcam, and records their hips stuttering against each other)

  


/ / /

  


Zayn lasts a total of twelve hours without him before giving in and sneaking through the hallways to Liam’s room. He knocks and waits before using the key he left and he’s walked in on a lot of things in the past few years (some including Niall, some including Harry and Louis, most including all three), but seeing a line of swimmers practicing handstands half-dressed and blaring his album shocks him a little more than it should.

Liam twists his neck, laughs, and shifts gracefully to his feet. Zayn’s heart beats a little faster. “You,” he says happily as he tugs him into a hug, “I thought you had practise.”

He shrugs and passes him a coffee and the row of boys behind them wolf-whistle and cat-call and turn a little wild when Liam hides his grin in his shoulder. “You tweeted about coffee yesterday,” he says, and Liam whispers something into his skin that he doesn’t quite catch.

_What Makes You Beautiful_  finishes and the swimmers shift back to their feet. They bump shoulders and walk out of the room and chime ‘ _see you tonight, sugar’_  until Liam laughs.

“Are you going out?” Zayn asks, as one of the boys props himself on the windowsill and plays with his phone.

He nuzzles into his neck. “It’s the end of the swimming week,” he says, “we’re celebrating and we’re allowed to drink.”

“Do I get you tomorrow?” he asks, slipping his fingers over the bare, relaxed muscles in his back. “I owe you lunch.”

The boy jumps to his feet and crowds close. His chest presses against Liam’s back and he  _swears_  he sees lips press against his neck. “Speaking of,” he mumbles, low and rough, as hands graze over Zayn’s on his way to Liam’s hips, “I owe you a blowjob. How about an endorphin rush for the meet in Mexico next month?”

Liam squirms between them and Zayn’s hands fall to the sides. “I don’t-” he starts, before leaning into Zayn’s neck, bumping against his loose hands, “this is-”

His eyes brighten with recognition and he steps back. “You’re Zayn,” he says, taking in their touching skin with a mischievous smirk. He slaps Liam’s arse to push them closer. “I’m Jude and I did  _not_  expect you two to fuck so soon.”

They flush and Jude shucks out of his sweatpants and disappears into the bathroom.

All his muscles stiffen a little and he fixes his hair to hide his eyes. “Why do they call you that?” he asks, stumbling backwards, staring at his neck and the soft pink from Jude’s lips. Liam frowns and shifts closer.

“They say I’m too sweet,” he says. “Are we-?”

He fumbles for the doorknob. “I should get back, we’re having problems with the amps-”

Liam grabs his wrist and tugs him back into his space and stares at him until he has to look away. “Zayn,” he says softly, and he butts against the bare collarbone in response, “I haven’t – not since our first date–”

He opens his mouth to respond but Liam nudges him against the doorway and kisses him soft and his reply is lost somewhere in the atmosphere.

  


/ / /

  


“ _Jude_ ,” Zayn groans, into Louis’ neck. Fingers scratch his scalp soothingly and every so often lips press to his hair and he likes that Louis hides this side, the side that would twist his bones to cheer them up. “I can’t compete with a Beatles song, Lou.”

Harry laughs across the room. “You’re panicking, Malik,” he teases, “it’s not like they’re still fucking. It would be like him being jealous of Nick Grimshaw.”

He twists to pout at him. “I don’t room with Nick Grimshaw. Nick Grimshaw doesn’t slap my arse and give me a hickey before we play. Nick Grimshaw isn’t an Olympian trained in endurance and strength and throat capacity-”

 Louis bites his neck in reprimand and shoves his phone into his hand. “He turns you into a teenage girl, sweetheart,” he whispers, and Zayn automatically checks his messages with a smile on his lips.

There’s a tweet from Liam saying ‘ _@zaynmalik I miss your stupid quiff’_  and a voice mail saying ‘ _I’m drunk and I wish you were here and you’re such a better fuck than Jude I promise’_  and there’s a monster deep in his chest that purrs in content.

  


/ / /

  


Liam sneaks into his bed late and presses a trail of sweet kisses up his neck in apology. He smells like sweat and alcohol and stale water from the Thames and Zayn deliberately pushes his body against the coarse fabric of his clothes.

“Is this okay?” Liam whispers, lips buried in Zayn’s hair as drunk fingers sneak around to fit in the spaces between ribs.

“You’re a national treasure,” he teases, “I think it’s parliamentary law I surrender my virtue to you.”

Liam huffs a laugh against the nape of his neck. “You’ll have no virtue left after this weekend.”

“Is that a promise?” he asks softly, a little more serious than intended.

They squirm playfully against each other until Zayn rolls over, tucking himself in the hollows of Liam’s body (the tendons in his neck, the low collarbones, the shallow dip between his muscled shoulders – they feel like they’re  _crafted_  for his hands), and whispering an  _‘I like you in my bed more than I like the bass under my feet and the crowd’s cheers before my eyes’._

“I hope that’s a lot,” Liam says hastily, all bravado, but he smothers a grin in Zayn’s hair until the sun drifts over the skyline.

  


/ / /

  


The next morning, Liam wakes him up with slick fingers dancing gently over his hole and a bit later (a lot later) they crawl out of bed and sneak out of the hotel. He drags Zayn across the city and into a tattoo parlour with hopeful eyes and a hopeless smile.

“The ring tattoo is initiation for the British swim team,” he says softly, tugging off his t-shirt. Zayn watches the exposed skin hungrily and crowds closer to help. “I was hoping – maybe – you could do mine?”

He watches Liam’s eyes brighten and automatically surges forward to kiss him, nudging him into the chair, whimpering into his mouth. They kiss all the way through the safety and when Zayn breaks the contact to listen to the instructions, lips are dragged down his jaw and back again.

Liam straddles the chair and stretches his arms to the floor and Zayn’s ‘ _are you sure?’_  is answered with a kick to his thighs and an ‘ _I’m sure sweetheart and you have a tattoo of an exploding mic you cannot judge’_.

Zayn’s careful, nervous, kneading the opposite shoulder and kissing around the sore skin around the rings. Liam makes these breathless noises that send him insane.

It takes a few hours and when it’s over, his back is slick with his kisses and Zayn’s cock is pressing insistently against his fly and he’s overwhelmed with the desire to wrap his arms around his waist and never let go.

Liam slips off the chair and drags his eyes from his flushed cheeks to his crotch and winks (blinks) in response. He slips into the bathroom to rub in lotion and Zayn quickly hands the artist the coordinates for the aquatic centre and pulls down the back of his singlet to expose the nape of his neck.

Liam raises an eyebrow from the bathroom and Zayn’s suddenly and inexplicably nervous.

“It’s not for you,” he promises, but it is, at least a little, because he’s never met someone able to flip the world upside down and still keep him anchored to the ground.

Liam grins at him like he knows and sits on the hard floor and watches hungrily as he squirms against the needle.

And afterwards, back at the hotel, Zayn slides into his pliant body with his lips pressing against the bruised shoulder and Liam twists an arm to touch the coordinates and the sweet sting reduces their vocabularies to ‘ _please please fuck please’_.

  


/ / /

  


Liam fits in his life the same way he fits against his body – subtly, easily, close to all his essential organs. He wakes up the next to him and falls asleep beside him and in the spaces between, Zayn shows him his world and Liam shows him the rest.

(there are also the midnight kisses in the pool and the walks along the Thames and watching his friends compete and waking up to Liam wrestling Niall and sharing notebooks and sneaking through the city and a thousand other things which Zayn will always associate with their week in London)

  


/ / /

  


On the day of the closing ceremony, Zayn leaves their dressing room to grab a water and when he comes back, Liam’s on the couch with Harry in his lap, Niall on his left and Louis on his right. Niall’s on the phone to Josh and Harry and Louis are sharing sweet kisses and Liam’s the lungs taking all the carbon dioxide out of their blood. He’s singing something soft and sweet, maybe  _somewhere over the rainbow_  like he does when he’s brushing his teeth, and there’s a bouquet of flowers beside his jacket and Zayn’s lungs swell at the sight.

Liam sees him in the doorway and finishes the chorus staring at his lips. There’s a spot between his legs for him but the buoyancy in his lungs and air of serenity surrounding his bandmates drags him away from the sight and into the shower.

He’s halfway through soaping up when the glass door slides open and he’s pulled against that familiar muscled chest.

“You get mine anyway,” Liam repeats, nibbling all the way down his neck.

His legs shake a little at the sensation and Liam grins, sucking a gentle bruise onto his shoulder.

“You took care of me,” he mumbles, hot in his ear as nails scratch through the soap on his stomach, “you took such good care of me, and now I’m going to take care of you.”

 Zayn twists eagerly on his axis to wrap an arm around his neck and tug him into a kiss. They grin against each other’s lips and fingers slide over his cock, practised and firm and familiar and  _warm_  and twisting around the head and mimicking the grind of his hips.

He bucks impatiently and Liam whispers ‘ _so fucking sexy, Zayn, remember the pool, remember the numb, remember that feeling no matter what’_  that shoves him ruthlessly over the edge and into Liam’s strong grip.

  


/ / /

  


He doesn’t remember much of the performance, but he does remember this:

He looks up during Harry’s solo and there’s Liam, propped up on a German’s shoulders, watching them fondly and mouthing something similar to ‘ _breathe deep, breathe slow, release the pressure’_  with a bottle of champagne loosely hoisted in the air.

Zayn thinks he falls a little in love before the end of the song.

  


/ / /

  


Zayn’s barely offstage when Liam shifts between the masses and pulls him into a tight hug. “You were  _brilliant_ ,” he says, muffled by the roaring crowd, and then, clearer, for the other boys – “it was _-_ ”

He gives up on finding an adjective and instead wraps a careful hand around his neck, fingers twitching against the hidden tattoo. He guides Zayn all the way through the crowd and into the pit with the athletes and wraps his arms around to cage him in.

There are a million lights dancing before them and Zayn thinks they might be stars because he feels  _on top of the fucking world_  and nothing will ever compare to this, this is the beginning and the climax and the resolution all at once.

“Hey,” Liam says, swaying to the cover of  _all you need is love_ , blushing a little in the stadium lights, “in a few weeks, I’m in France for a meet when you’re there for an interview and we could – if you’d like-”

He grins and stretches up to nuzzle shamelessly at his neck. “Yeah,” he says, a little more breathless than he’ll admit to, “we could put a lock on the lover’s bridge.”

A hand wraps around his neck, settling low on the coordinates. “We could see the Eiffel Tower.”

He traces the line of his shoulders aimlessly. “Defile another competition pool.”

“Or another dressing room.”

He laughs, but the noise is caught in his throat as he presses their foreheads together. “Or you could come home with me tonight,” he suggests, and the whole world is pulled away when Liam groans and kisses him sweetly and-

He’s okay with drowning, he thinks, if he’s drowning in Liam.


End file.
